


half doomed and twice damned

by lunarecrypt



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Has A Palace, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Shuake, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, In Medias Res, M/M, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Will update tags as we go, mentions of some things from Royal, some mildly disturbing imagery later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarecrypt/pseuds/lunarecrypt
Summary: “Maybe I just didn’t like the thought of you cooped up in that apartment all alone.”Akechi has nothing to say to that, and Akira smothers a smile in another sip of his drink. Point to him.Or, the ways in which Akira discovers Goro has a Palace and tries to fix everything before it breaks.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 22
Kudos: 92





	1. Nine of Swords

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, I'm Ashe! New to P5, swinging in here with my first ever multichap. Please don't eat me alive :D I'd planned on waiting until I had more chapters done before I started posting this, but alas I am an impatient bitch and here we are. 
> 
> Mostly I wanted to say a big thank you to my meme squam here for both inspiring this and throwing their headcanons at me at all hours of the day. I love you all so much <3
> 
> I don't know about other writers out there, but I'm one of those people who absolutely has to make a playlist when I start a new project. So that's [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/010cPfJz1giyivs8dMn0SS?si=bTM0y0QeTv2p-L4xyrB3ug) if you want to give it a listen. I'm not sorry for my eclectic ass music taste. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> for those unfamiliar with the arcana, I'll attach notes to the beginning of the chapters with what the titles/corresponding cards mean!
> 
> Nine of Swords: Anxiety, worry, fear, depression, nightmares  
> Nine of Swords, Reversed: Inner turmoil, deep-seated fears, secrets, releasing worry

Sometimes, in the middle of the night when the moon plays hide and seek with the clouds and the glowing star stickers on the rafters have faded to nothing more than darkness, Akira thinks about love in all its myriad forms. He thinks about the love of a family, about the father he’s found in a grouchy old barista and the sister he didn’t know he needed in a hacker with bright eyes and a brighter laugh. He thinks about the love of a confidant, about the various people he meets in the city who somehow trust him with their secrets and mistakes and dreams. He thinks about the protective kind of love, the kind that burns in his throat and tastes like rage when he confronts another injustice done to the people he cares for. He thinks about the love of a little black cat from another world who curls up on his chest when red-tinged fog and cages made of bone wake him in the middle of the night, gasping for breath he doesn’t have.

Sometimes Akira thinks about the love of a group of misfit, mismatched teenagers sprawled across a dusty attic room in a cafe he’s made into a home, about how easily he gives away pieces of himself just to see them smile. It scares him, some days, just how far he’s willing to go for them.

Today is not one of those days.

Today, Akira is selfish. Today, Akira lounges on his bed and pretends to scroll through his phone, one arm behind his head, one leg propped up in the air by the other, glasses lying discarded and forgotten on the uncovered windowsill. Today, he stares at his friends—at his _family_ —gathered in his room like the world hasn’t been ripped from under his feet. He doesn’t blame them, of course. They have so much less to lose than he does. Akira’s love for them is a noose around his neck tied by his own hands, strangling the breath from his lungs when he thinks about what he has to do to get what he wants.

How does he tell them that he’s going to betray them?

“Aw come on, that was bullshit!” Ryuji’s face contorts in despair as his character dies on screen. He sits on a cushion they found buried in the back of Akira’s closet three months back, a game controller balanced on one knee and betrayal in his eyes.

“Get good, blondie,” Futaba coos, sticking her tongue at him. She crouches on her own cushion and cheers victoriously at the 16-bit fireworks that light up the screen and declare her victorious. Ryuji throws a nearby pillow at her head and she topples to the floor. Akira thinks too much about signs and omens and feet balanced precariously on the edge of a black and bloodied abyss.

Morgana snorts from his place on Haru’s lap, wisely choosing not to comment on Ryuji’s abysmal ratio of wins against Futaba. Yusuke, Makoto, Haru, and Ann huddle around a small, circular coffee table Akira had found while cleaning up, playing some card game he’s never heard of. Yusuke hovers his fingers over Haru’s hand of cards, elegant brows furrowed in deep concentration. Haru smiles serenely at him, a picture of innocence wrapped in a baby pink sweater. Ann howls with laughter when Yusuke pulls a bad card, eyes dancing with mirth. Makoto tries to hide her own smile behind a poker face and fails miserably.

“You are a terrifying opponent,” Yusuke murmurs solemnly. His eyes light up with inspiration and he looks to Haru suddenly, clapping a hand against his chest and throwing one across the table to point at her. “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to paint such a divine poker face?” Haru doesn’t drop the serene smile, but her eyebrow twitches and somehow the air in the room feels ten times heavier.

“Oh, you’ve done it now.” Makoto rolls her eyes, smothering another laugh. She waves her hand at Ann.

“Right, my turn,” she says, perking up and grinning. She puts her chin in her hand, tapping at her glossed lips with freshly manicured nails. The others go quiet while she thinks, looking for tics in her facial expression. The sound of laser gunfire from Akira’s small television is the only sound, and the noose around his neck grows tighter by the second. The words are trapped behind his teeth, clawing at his lips until the noose releases its grip just long enough for them to burst out in a voice that sounds far steadier than Akira feels.

“I’m going to steal the treasure alone.”

Silence steals over the room like death. The tinny gunfire from Futaba’s game cuts off mid-fire. _Shit,_ Akira thinks. Maybe not his most tactful delivery.

No one speaks. He can see their silhouettes from his periphery, feel their eyes boring into him as he maintains his lax position on his bed. He doesn’t make eye contact with them. Not yet. Tension gathers, reaching fingers across the floorboards to pull the noose tighter around his throat. His fingers shake around his phone, pull tight at the hair on his head. He hates fighting with his friends, prays desperately that they won’t realize the depths of his betrayal as they process what he’s said. But this? This is something he won’t, something he _can’t_ , negotiate on.

He isn’t asking.

Ryuji is, predictably, the first to break the silence. “Like hell you are!” He stands from his cushion on the floor, accusatory finger pointed at Akira’s face. His exclamation shakes the rest of the group out of their shock, and Akira is assaulted with their rapid-fire concern as they rise from their seats and stand side by side.

Yusuke. “That is preposterous, one should never take on a Palace alone.” (He has no other choice.)

Makoto. “Are you insane? You could be killed!” (He doesn’t care.)

Futaba. “Can you even get around without me?” (He’s had to when he was alone.)

Haru. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea…” (As if that’s ever stopped him before.)

Ann. “Think about what you’re saying, Akira.” (That’s all he’s _done_ , damnit.)

Morgana says nothing.

Akira tries to breathe around the noose, unfurls himself from his position, and moves to the edge of the bed. His feet are planted firmly on the floor, fingers gripping his knees because he _has_ to be the one to do this. He gives himself two seconds to suffocate before finally looking up at them, unwavering in his conviction as he meets their gazes one by one. He sees too much in each of his friends’ eyes—fear, worry, anger covering up more fear, and strangely enough, guilt.

The guilt comes from Morgana’s eyes, and the sheer depth of it is what has Akira shifting in his seat. He gets it, he does. Morgana still feels awful for abandoning Akira when he had tried everything to get Morgana to stay after the fight between him and Ryuji, despite how often Akira assures him that he understands and he’s not upset. His determined gaze softens just for a moment, and he gives a small half-smile to his best friend.

“It’s not about that, Morgana,” he says.

“Mona?” Ann asks, voice quiet beneath the weight of her sudden understanding. She looks between them, silently assessing their one-sided conversation. The rest of the group stares in varying states of confusion and defiance, not understanding the unspoken words hanging in the air.

The silence drags on seemingly without end; Haru and Futaba start fiddling with their hands, Yusuke with a spare paintbrush he’s pulled from god knows where, and Ryuji sways from foot to foot in his impatience. Makoto doesn’t move, merely watches everything with interest. Still, Akira holds Morgana’s gaze and waits. Arsene screams in the back of his mind, adding a hint of blue fire to his slate-grey eyes and he knows his friends are no longer seeing Akira staring back at them, but Joker.

But it is still Akira who burns with the need to breathe, to cut the rope around his neck and be done with it. He chokes and suffocates and aches to let them tear him apart for his betrayal, but still, he does not waver. He is sitting down, but he knows his gaze is powerful and unwavering. He might as well be standing firm, dressed as the personification of rebellion with blazing gold eyes for the way his thieves shift uncomfortably at the fire in his eyes.

Morgana must find whatever it is he’s looking for in Akira’s eyes, because he huffs a small laugh and the Phantom Thieves relax as one. “There’s no talking him out of this. His mind is made up.”

Akira does not sag with relief or smile at the support. He might be the leader of the group, and he knows they’ll listen to him more if Morgana is on his side, but even he is still bound by their singular rule. Unanimous or nothing. All for one or not at all, and for as hot as his rebellious soul burns beneath his skin, this is the one rule he wants to keep from breaking.

The Phantom Thieves look at each other. They don’t speak, but Akira knows them almost as well as he knows himself and he sees the collective _no_ that passes between their clenched fists and unmasked eyes. He digs his fingers harder into his knees, braces himself for the inevitable fight he doesn’t want to have. Invisible rope strangles all the breath from his lungs.

But then Ann steps forward and crouches down in front of him. She lays her hand over his and squeezes, her skin soft and warm against his too-cold fingers. She gives him a confident grin, and Akira burns with shame when she sniffles softly. He hates himself for being the reason her brilliant turquoise eyes mist over with tears.

“I’m with you, Akira,” she says, and Akira tries not to think about the fact that she _knows_ why he’s doing this and where his true motivations lie, even if the others don’t. The weight of her support settles across his shoulders and warms the ice in his fingertips.

For one small, stolen moment, Akira can breathe. He won’t make her cry again, he swears.

Makoto narrows her eyes at them both, opens her mouth to say something that will probably shred the fragile peace into ribbons. Instead, Haru grasps her shoulder and shakes her head.

“Akira,” Haru starts, voice dangerously soft. Yusuke shivers.

“Man, are you _insane?”_ Ryuji interrupts. “This ain’t just some regular-ass Palace, this is—”

And something in Akira snaps.

 _“You think I don’t know that?”_ His growl is fire and fury and rebellion and rage, too much Arsene and not enough Akira. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake here? You don’t get it. I know exactly what could happen in there and _I don’t fucking care._ ”

Ryuji flinches back violently, shame and anger and fear all warring for a spot in his brown eyes. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Clenches his fist.

 _Fuck,_ Akira thinks. He rushes to fix things, strangling himself tighter with a noose of his own design. “Ryuji, I’m sorry. I… _shit._ I’m sorry.” Ann squeezes his hand again, and Akira squeezes back.

And Ryuji, in all his obnoxious, loud-mouthed perfection, just laughs it off like it’s nothing. He claps a hand on Akira’s shoulder and squeezes his reassurance into the fabric of Akira’s faded black t-shirt. “Man, and here I thought I’d never see you get so fired up outside of a Palace.” He sits down on the bed, nudging Akira’s shoulder with his own. “It’s cool, man. I’ve got your back, even if I think it’s kind of stupid.”

Akira lets himself lean into the warmth of Ryuji’s shoulder against his own and Ann’s hands holding his. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t feel like he has the right to, but it’s a very near thing. He sucks in a breath he doesn’t have when Ryuji puts his hand on top of Ann’s. To his left, Futaba runs her fingers across Morgana’s fur in a steady back and forth. She’s nervous, and Akira hates himself that much more for causing her anxiety when they’d been working so hard to bring her out of her shell.

Haru shifts where she stands beside Makoto, face impassive even as her knuckles are white around Makoto’s shoulder. Makoto says nothing, but Akira sees her nudge Haru with her foot.

Yusuke beats her to the punch, stepping forward to put his hand firmly on top of Ryuji’s.

“I trust in your abilities.”

Akira feels like he’s been gutted. He knows they trust him, knows _Yusuke_ trusts him even after all his mistakes and missteps, but hearing it spelled out so plainly shakes him to his core. His breath trembles when it escapes his lips and he nearly hunches over with the weight of everything he is feeling.

“Do you think,” Makoto starts, the ice in her voice freezing any warm feelings Akira may have had, “that you’re going to be able to survive _five minutes_ in there without backup?”

Even Haru sucks in a breath at this, eyes cutting sharply to Makoto in warning. Akira can’t bring himself to be offended by the observation, because this is Makoto and she expresses her concern the same way Sojiro does—by covering it with a thin veneer of anger. He almost smiles despite himself. Ann, Ryuji, and Yusuke’s hands are warm on his.

“Maybe not,” he tells Makoto, who sucks in a sharp breath. “But this is my responsibility and I think you know that.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Makoto immediately goes red in the face and swings her arm in front of her, anger eclipsing her concern. “Bullshit! It’s _all_ of our responsibilities, Akira! You can’t just—”

“Mako-chan. Stop.” Haru’s voice is level and strong, every bit the confident and fearless Noir.

Surprisingly, Makoto listens. She meets Akira’s eyes and deflates, the fight draining out of her so fast it nearly gives Akira whiplash. He doesn’t tense when she approaches because he sees the resignation in her eyes and, below that, the trust. She puts her hand on top of the pile. The noose loosens a bit more. Akira takes a slow breath.

“I won’t say I approve of this plan, Akira,” Haru says, and her voice is smooth and calm and sweet, a balm to the doubt and self-hatred that still festers deep in his soul. “But I trust you to do the right thing.”

Akira swallows tightly. He’d expected her to fight him tooth and nail on this, to demand in her soft way that he take her along. But she stands in front of him and smiles like she understands his feelings, even without truly knowing what’s driving him. Or maybe she does, and he’s not giving her enough credit. She lays her hand on top of Makoto’s.

They’re all crowded around him now, sitting and standing and crouching to make this pile of hands in support of his selfishness. Akira lifts his head and stares across the room at the girl who has become his sister and the snarky lump of fur that has become his best friend.

Futaba rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “Fiiiiine, I _guess_ I can make sure the route is clear of Shadows before you go in, but you owe me big time.” Akira nods seriously at her, and she nods back with a glint in her eye that makes him reconsider having any technology around him for the next decade at least.

Morgana jumps into Akira’s lap when Futaba sets him down and adds a single paw to the pile. A small, chipped piece of Akira slots perfectly into place at the gesture. Futaba is next, climbing on the bed behind him and draping herself across his shoulders. For the first time in weeks, Akira can breathe again. He looks at his friends, at this little family he’s somehow managed to find among all the chaos that is his life, and he smiles.

Futaba swipes his glasses off the window and puts them on his face upside down, shattering the heavy atmosphere in an instant. Laughter breaks out among the Phantom Thieves, and Akira knows he’s won.

Finally, finally, the noose around his neck falls away.

When all his friends leave with the setting sun and it’s just Morgana left to fill the silence, Akira breathes deeply, if not easily. He’s managed to avoid hanging himself on a self-made rope and somehow convinced his friends of the validity of his plan all in one night, but he’s still far from being safe. There are still things he needs to do.

Akira pulls a letter from his bag. The envelope is a deep red, the same shade as his gloves in the Metaverse, the same shade as something else he doesn’t let himself think about. He flips the envelope over in his hands, to the white trim on the closed flap. It’s already been sealed with black wax, but Akira knows the paper inside is embossed with a shimmering black outline of the Phantom Thieves logo, the words inside written in his own elegant script. Yusuke had been nearly beside himself when he saw it, bemoaning his own blocky handwriting.

Morgana hops up on the bed and lays his head on Akira’s leg, shaking him from the memory. “Do you know how you’re going to deliver it?”

Akira scratches him behind the ears as he stares at the envelope. He hums. “Simple, I’m going to hand it to him.”

Morgana gapes at him, poking his sharp claws through the denim of Akira’s jeans in shock. “Are you _insane?_ You can’t possibly expect that to work!”

Akira shrugs and pulls the claws from his pants before slipping the envelope back into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He knows that his target has a rare free evening, so he pulls his phone from his pocket and heads to the stairs.

“Hey, Akira?” Morgana calls, hesitant. Akira freezes halfway through a step, closing his eyes against the raw, vulnerable concern in Morgana’s voice.

He looks over his shoulder and meets Morgana’s eyes. “I’ll be okay.”

“...Okay.”

Akira prays it isn’t a lie.

_**[Sent 6:33pm]** _

**_Meet me at our usual place in half an hour. I have something for you._ **

**_[Received 6:34pm]_ **

**_On my way._ **


	2. Eight of Cups, Reversed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated splitting this chapter in half, but then I said nah, fuck it. Chapter length consistency? Don't know her. 
> 
> Shoutout again to my meme squam for being my inspiration! And also their constant dragging me for my preferences of Raoul's design over Satanael's. 
> 
> Arcana meaning, for those of you unfamiliar with what the chapter titles mean—
> 
> Eight of Cups: disappointment, abandonment, withdrawal, escapism.  
> Eight of Cups, Reversed: trying one more time, indecision, aimless drifting, walking away.

When Akira opens his eyes to the now-familiar feeling of shackles around his wrists, he can only sigh. He lies there on the uncomfortable bed for a moment longer, weary down to his very bones. Is one night of uninterrupted sleep too much to ask? He’s not sure he has the energy to deal with cryptic half-riddles from Igor or the echo of Caroline’s nightstick against his metal cell bars. Despite their equally cryptic existence and lack of genuine answers to the many, many questions he still has, Akira holds a deep-rooted fondness for the twins and their strange expressions of affection for him.

He sighs once before sitting up, bracing himself to face the mysterious master of the Velvet Room. Igor has felt different lately, and though Akira can’t put his finger on exactly what’s changed, he trusts the wary apprehension that’s made a home in his gut.

A short bark of familiar laughter echoes around the room, startling Akira. He looks to the desk in the center of the room, and only then does he notice that it’s empty.

_Huh. How strange_. The door to his cell is still closed, and the twins are nowhere to be found. Something isn’t right here. He pulls himself to his feet easily, long since used to the weight of his shackles, and cautiously makes his way to the door of his cell. The room itself is eerily silent but unchanged—same hazy fog shifting through the air, same blue velvet walls, same eight cells sitting empty across from his own. He wraps his fingers around the rusted bars of his cell door, hoping to find it unlocked but not expecting much.

The metal shatters in his hands, scattering shards of steel across the floor.

“Well, that can’t be good,” he muses. His voice is muted, half-swallowed by the fabric on the walls. There’s an odd duality to the sound in the room without anyone to occupy it—Akira can hear every shift of fabric on his body and the steady boom of his heartbeat, but the normally clanging metal of his shackles barely make a whisper of sound as he moves.

Another sharp bark of laughter hits his ears, and he instinctively shifts toward the sound. It’s a derisive laugh, wrapped in layers of self-deprecation and anger and loneliness that he’s tried so hard to assuage. Akira would recognize the shape of that laughter in any world—reality, dream, or cognitive. He’s heard it faked and forced on Sojiro’s worn-out television set, heard it lovely and quiet across a tiny table in a softly-lit jazz club, heard it loud and confident in a pool hall with faded dart boards and well-worn tape. It sends a shot of burning ice through his blood.

Akechi has somehow found a way into the Velvet Room.

Akira follows the echo of Akechi’s laughter out of his cell, ignoring the shards of metal that bury themselves in the soft arches of his feet. A small, thin hallway is tucked into the brick wall just left of his cell. This is where Caroline and Justine fuse Personas when necessary, but the hallway is something he wouldn’t have been able to see from inside the cell. He doesn’t look at the splatter of black on blue brick, remembering his horror and confusion the first time the twins wielded a chainsaw on one of his Personas after the guillotine broke. Akira shakes his head and slips into the hidden hallway.

His chains whisper across the concrete floor, warping and stretching as he slips through the inky darkness. Whatever odd source of light keeps the Velvet Room lit seems to not work here. Voices reach Akira’s ears from further down the hall, and he keeps one hand on the cool brick as he walks.

The hallway is surprisingly long, Akira thinks. He loses track of time as he walks, sparing minimal thought to how long he’s been down here before he feels the wall start to curve beneath his hand. His chains are still slack behind him and the muffled voices he’s been following haven’t gotten and quieter or louder. He’s stopped questioning the odd physics of these sorts of places after spending so much time in the Metaverse, but that doesn’t stop an uneasy feeling from digging its talons into his lungs.

The wall curves gradually left at first, then sharply to the right, giving way to an open space where Akira can’t reach the walls. He comes to a stop six inches from the harsh line of light that cuts through the darkness. His shackles are tight around his wrists and ankles, preventing him from crossing the line to exit the hall. How fitting _,_ he thinks, for someone who spends his time fighting shadows in the confines of the mind. He looks up from the play of light and dark on the floor, mind immediately emptying of all thought upon seeing the scene laid out in front of him.

This is nowhere he recognizes.

The circular room itself is staggering in its opulence, dripping glittering gold chandeliers and bolts of gossamer chiffon draped across blue pennant flags adorned with a silver crest he doesn’t recognize. Twin staircases form a circle at the far back of the room, leading up to a jewel-studded gold balcony and a set of gilded double doors that must be at least fifteen feet high. A sparkling silver fountain stands in the center of the curved staircase, spouting steaming water high into the air.

People mill about the room—it’s a ballroom, Akira realizes—chatting and laughing over crystal flutes of champagne and twirling around a blood red dancefloor. They move too fast for him to see any of their faces, but he can see they’re all dressed lavishly—sapphire silk over velvet mauve dresses, navy tailored coats over iridescent pants and purple calf-high boots. He resists the urge to physically cringe. Who the hell had dressed these people in such awful, gaudy designs? Even his striped, tattered prison garb is better than this disgusting mass of mismatched colors. One dancing couple turns toward a server with a plate of hors d'oeuvre, giving Akira a glimpse of their faces.

He has to swallow back bile. The woman has vaguely circular eyes with a bright pink core where her pupils should be, a lopsided orange triangle for a nose, and a mouth that extends three inches off each side of her face. She smiles at her companion, revealing a row of teeth that look like knives. She looks like something a child would draw, but it’s her companion that makes Akira’s stomach turn. His features are completely blank—nothing but smooth, bare flesh where his face should be.

Akira drags his gaze away from the couple when a dark spot shifts in his periphery. Akechi stands off to one side, half-turned away from where Akira is and locked in conversation with a blonde girl in a knee-length, high collared blue dress with large circles down the center. Thankfully, her face is relatively normal. Akira doesn’t recognize her, but she seems familiar somehow.

Akechi, though, is the one who draws his gaze, dressed in close-fitting black pants and black boots with red buckles. His open coat is longer, tailored perfectly to his narrow waist and falling halfway to his knees. The edges are trimmed with velvet and red clasps the same shade as the ones on his boots and the black vest he wears. A flute of champagne is held in his left hand, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It’s tied back instead of loose around his face, feathered strands wrapped into a loose braid held together by a red leather cord. Silver and crystal catch the light, flashing against the thin strip of exposed skin around Akechi’s wrist. Akira’s breath aches in his chest. He’d given Akechi that bracelet not three days back, telling him that silver was his color and he should have something pretty to wear. He swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat. He’d always known Akechi would be stunning in black, in silver, in red, but this surpasses even his lofty expectations. Even in the sea of gaudy clothes, sparkling colors, unsettling faces and non-faces, he stands out.

“—to go back, don’t you?” the girl is speaking in a low tone, drawing Akira’s attention to their conversation. She looks solemn, an expression that seems strangely at home on the soft angles of her face. He’s mainly glad that she looks human.

Akechi’s face twists into an expression Akira never thought he’d see: regret. His fingers tighten on the thin stem of his glass, threatening to snap it in half. “I know,” he sighs. “I’d stay here forever if I could, I think.”

The girl sips her champagne, assessing Akechi with cool topaz eyes. “You have too many loose ends to tie up. You’re close to your goal. What makes you want to give up now?”

Akechi does snap his glass at that, scattering small chunks at his feet. None of the room’s other occupants turn at the sound. “I’m not _giving up,_ ” he spits. The girl doesn’t balk at the acid in his tone. Akechi picks a shard of glass from his thumb with his teeth and watches the pearl of blood that forms on the tip. Akira is suddenly reminded of his own bleeding feet.

“Aren’t you, Trickster?” The girl in blue asks, one eyebrow raised as she dusts a loose bit of glass from her shoulder. Akira thinks she’s playing a dangerous game, egging Akechi on this way. He’s wound up tight, shoulders raised with the tension Akira knows always lurks just beneath his skin. He knows that if Akechi turned toward him, there would be blue and red fire simmering in his eyes.

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Akechi snaps. The force behind his voice echoes around the ballroom, but none of the other occupants even twitch at the sound.

The girl shrugs, nonchalant and unfazed by his temper. “Would you prefer Wild Card?”

_Wild Card_. Akira grasps that bit of information and turns it over in his mind. He’d thought he was the only one—at least, according to Igor—but he can feel the truth of the words in his bones. Another piece of the puzzle that is Goro Akechi slots into place even as three more dislodge and dissolve, leaving him with more questions than answers. Had Igor lied to him? He had a hard time believing the warden was unaware.

To Akira’s immense surprise, all the tension drains out of Akechi at once. His shoulders drop lower than their usual confident position and his hands fall limply to his sides. He looks up at the ceiling, letting out a wry laugh that tastes like bitter candy on the back of Akira’s tongue. He looks… defeated. Akira’s heart squeezes hard and he reaches out to cross the ten feet of open space between them, only to be stopped by the tug of metal around his wrist.

Akechi looks back at the girl, eyes flickering with some burning color Akira is too far away to name. “Maybe I just don’t want—”

She turns suddenly, startling Akechi so badly he flinches. Her burning topaz eyes lock with Akira’s grey ones and he sucks in a breath. How had she seen him?

Akechi recovers and follows her gaze right to where Akira is standing in the shadows. His eyes widen imperceptibly, one part rage, one part confusion, one part fear. He steps forward and Akira braces himself for a fight, but then something he can’t quite comprehend happens.

Akechi begins to shrink. His tailored black attire shrinks with him, morphing into a pair of faded blue jeans, worn brown sneakers, and a plain white t-shirt. He looks about six years old by the time he stops shrinking, all wide chocolate eyes and messy hair and a tattered red blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape. He opens his mouth to call out to Akira.

“Inmate!”

Akira blinks. He’s back in his cell, barred door intact and shackles back to normal length. _What the hell?_

“Do _not_ disappoint our master, Inmate,” Caroline says, snapping her nightstick against the bars. “Understand?”

“Uh,” Akira says coherently. He’s still processing what he’s just seen, reeling at the implications, but shakes it off when he sees the twins exchange worried glances. “Right, of course.”

He leaves the Velvet Room maybe just a bit too quickly, stepping through a warp in reality and onto the dark concrete of a back alley in Kichijoji. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he turns to see both girls staring at him. Caroline is sitting atop the glowing blue doorway, swinging her legs and fiddling with the wrist strap on her nightstick. Justine stands below her sister in the shade of the alley with her hands folded behind her back, just out of reach of the Velvet Room’s illumination. Her eyes are bright, nearly glowing in the shadows, swimming with an emotion Akira can’t place. She’s always been the more expressive of the two, but right now he can’t get a read on her at all.

“What did you see, Trickster?” Her voice is oddly serious, almost worried. He snags on that word again. _Trickster._ The same thing that girl called Akechi. He seemed to know what it meant, but Akira is once again left in the dark, floundering for the pieces of a puzzle he’s not sure he can complete. It leaves him feeling unbalanced, unsteady on his feet.

He goes to ask Justine about it, or maybe reassure himself that he’s not going insane. “I—”

He stops. Flips through his memories. Comes up empty. _What the hell?_ Blue fog swirls around his mind where something was just seconds ago, wrapping smoky tendrils around a black void of space he knows should be filled with something important, something _vital_ , but isn’t.

“I don’t… I can’t remember,” he murmurs, looking to the small girl in front of him. He digs further into his memory, trying to remember how he got to Kichijoji in the first place, why he’d come at all.

Justine presses her lips together, though she doesn’t seem upset with him. If anything she seems more concerned than before, contemplative and quiet. Caroline stops swinging her legs and watches them with cool, calculating amber eyes. He thinks about the conversations between the two girls when he brings them special Personas and the headaches that have begun to plague them more often than not, prodding them with things they can’t quite remember.

“I see,” Justine murmurs. She meets his eyes again and nods, seeming to come to some sort of decision. “Right. Enjoy your break, Inmate. Don’t do anything foolish.”

Akira blinks. Caroline snaps her nightstick closed with a sense of finality and hops to the ground, landing silently on her feet. Both girls give him one more lingering, thoughtful look before stepping back and fading into nothing, taking the familiar blue glow of the Velvet Room with them.

What was all that about?

He shakes his head and tries to brush off the feeling that lurks beneath his skin, the void of forgotten memories that whisper _something isn’t right_ in his head. He resolves to think about it later, shifting his empty bag higher on his shoulder and making the decision to stop by the new crepe stand Ann had recommended to him last week before picking up some old game Futaba asked him for.

Akira leaves the alley and goes about his day.

The unsettled feeling lingers long into his sleepless night.

🃏

The sun is hidden behind bruised clouds when Akira makes his way downstairs. It’s early—too early for Sojiro to even be awake, let alone be here to open. Leblanc is draped in shadows and the gentle patter of rain against the glass, painting worn brown booths and cream-colored tables in shades of grey. The air is tinged with hints of earthy coffee and last night’s spicy-sweet curry. He inhales the scents, lets them make a home at the bottom of his lungs. He loves early mornings like this, with their little rare hints of peace that settle across his skin to remind him this is where he belongs. Coming here was a gift in disguise, he’s long since realized, and one he cherishes.

He leaves the cafe lights off as he moves around the kitchen. There’s still half an hour or so before he has to update the chalkboard outside with today’s specials—something Sojiro had begrudgingly put him in charge of after Futaba declared that Akira’s combinations of curry and coffee were more balanced—so Akira sets about making himself a cup of coffee with the new Ethiopian Mocha Harrar beans Sojiro just got in. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his faded grey sweatpants while the water heats, opening up his ongoing game of scrabble with Futaba. She’s winning, but not by much. He plays _inevitably_ using the V from Futaba’s _naive_ and hits a triple word tile with the Y, raising his 18 point score to 54.

An IM pops up across the top of his screen. He’s not surprised Futaba is awake this early in the morning; she probably hasn’t slept yet.

_**[Received 5:21am]** _

**_I’m going to brick your phone._ **

**_[Sent 5:21am]_ **

**_gitgud.jpg_ **

_**[Sent 5:22am]** _

**_And go to sleep._ **

**_[Received 5:22am]_ **

**_No.♡_ **

Akira snorts and shakes his head, pouring himself a cup of the now-ready coffee. He inhales the aromas that waft from the cup—a heady, thick spiced wine flavor with hints of some fruit he can’t quite place. Blueberries or blackberries, maybe. A small test sip has him adding a splash of steamed heavy whipping cream and two sugar cubes. He plays a few more rounds of scrabble with Futaba while the coffee erases the leftover exhaustion from his sleepless night, but she stops making moves after a while and he assumes she’s finally fallen asleep. He hopes she’s at least made it to bed and isn’t hunched over her desk again, drooling on the keyboard.

With his body sufficiently caffeinated and the clock creeping closer to 6, Akira stretches the last dregs of sleepiness from his limbs and grabs the folding chalkboard from outside. Dew has gathered on the faded wood, collecting in the small chipped sections to drip down and streak through yesterday’s bright blue chalk. He wipes away the words with a damp cloth and gets rid of the water with the front of his black tank top, sketching some habanero peppers on vines in a soft pink color he knows Haru likes. The specials he writes with a flourish in sunshine yellow chalk: _Super-Spicy Curry with Jasmine Rice and Columbian Bucaramanga Supremo with Steamed Almond Milk._ _¥2100._

Satisfied with his work, Akira dusts the chalk off his fingers and takes the board to the front. An unfamiliar pair of washed-out dark blue skinny jeans tucked into black boots catches his eye through the clear panes of glass, and he opens to door to find Akechi leaning against the wall that leads to the bathhouse and laundromat, umbrella in one hand to protect him from the rain and phone held in his other hand. Akira blinks at the jeans and black jacket, a stark contrast to Akechi’s standard black slacks and khaki jacket. It stands out against the bright brick, making his skin look a little less pale in the grey-tinged morning. Still, Akira thinks, he looks exhausted. Burned out.

“Akechi,” he calls, raising his voice to be heard over the splatter of rain on the sidewalk. He props up the chalkboard next to Sojiro’s plants, making sure it’s far enough under the awning that the water won’t wash away his work.

Akechi’s head comes up slowly from his phone to meet Akira’s eyes. “Ah, my apologies. I suppose I am a bit early today.” He lets out a yawn, looking embarrassed the moment he realizes he can’t stop it.

Akira holds up a hand before Akechi can do something stupid, like apologize. “Come inside and I’ll make coffee.” Akechi blinks, processing that. Akira holds the door open and raises an eyebrow. “Well? I’m not getting rained on for fun, you know,” he says dryly.

Akechi laughs and crosses the street, snapping his umbrella shut and shaking the water off far enough away from the chalkboard to escape the scathing glare Akira has ready for situations such as this. Akechi slips through the door with a mumbled _thank you,_ and this close, Akira can see the bruise-dark circles beneath his eyes that even studio-light strength concealer can’t hide.

Akira closes the door and leaves it unlocked for Sojiro before flicking on the lights as Akechi takes a seat at the bar, hanging his fitted black coat over the back of the red chair. Beneath it is a speckled grey and black cowl neck sweater, the front hem tucked into the waistband of his pants. Akira has a flash of Akechi’s hair tied back, but when he blinks, Akechi’s hair is the same as always, if a bit frizzy from the rain. He shakes off the thought and spies the slight bulge of a bracelet beneath Akechi’s left sleeve. He swallows tightly. Akechi looks... good. Really good.

“So, hot date at Jazz Jin tonight?” Akira asks, and wow, he could smack himself for how stupid that was. _Way to go, dumbass._ He grabs a tall glass and the half-empty bag of Costa Rican SHB coffee beans a little too aggressively, nearly dropping it in his haste.

Akechi doesn’t seem to notice his crisis, rolling his eyes as he drags a hand through his hair to untangle it. “Not a chance,” he says dryly. “Ann and Haru dragged me to Ginza last night for a quick shopping trip—” he makes actual air quotes around _quick shopping trip_ and Akira nearly snorts. “—and insisted I needed a wardrobe upgrade.”

He looks so disgruntled by this that Akira actually does laugh, though he whistles and raises an eyebrow at the choice of destination. “ _Ginza?_ Damn, they really weren’t messing around.”

Akechi groans and drops his head into his gloved hands. “Ann wanted to put me in _leather pants,_ ” he says, forcing the word out between his teeth like it physically pains him. “And Haru wouldn’t even consider going somewhere less expensive. She paid for everything, said she would cry if I didn’t wear it at least once.”

Akira shoots him a faux sympathetic glance as he drops four small cubes of frozen almond cream into the glass, not daring to laugh at the thought of Haru turning her big doe eyes on Akechi. Not even a hardened criminal could resist their power. “That sounds like them,” he nods sagely. “So what’s going on? You’re rarely here this early.”

Akechi hums, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Ah, forgive me, it is quite early, isn’t it? I can leave if I’m imposing.” He doesn’t meet Akira’s eyes, and Akira hates the return of the overly formal speech that he’s only just gotten Akechi to stop using around him.

“Of course I don’t want you to leave,” he says quietly, pouring fresh coffee into the glass. It melts the cream cubes slightly, turning the dark brew a softer, earthier shade. “I wouldn’t have invited you in if I didn’t want you here, Akechi.”

Akechi pulls the string out of his sleeve and rolls it into a ball. “You never cease to intrigue me. For all you know, I could have come here to get you alone and kill you.” He flicks the ball of string at Akira, hitting him square in the center of his forehead.

Akira smirks and folds his arms across the prep station, leans across the bar and gets dangerously, intoxicatingly close. He lets a hint of blue fire flicker around his pupils, smile stretching across his bare face. “If you wanted me alone, you just had to ask.”

Akechi doesn’t balk at the proximity, eyes flickering with something dark. The rain picks up outside, splattering large droplets against the asphalt. Thunder cracks and lightning flashes across the sky, playing stark shadows across the planes of his face. Somewhere down the street, a dog starts barking.

“How did you know I was going to ask for iced coffee?”

Akira blinks at the abrupt change in topic. “What?”

Akechi dons a smirk of his own, triumphant at being able to tip the scales of their game in his favor. “Do pay attention, Kurusu. I asked how you knew I wanted iced coffee.”

“Oh, well.” Akira leans back and shrugs, tipping a small splash of sweet almond cream into the glass. “You always drink hot coffee in the summer, but you’ve been drinking it iced now that the weather is cooling down. Figured you’d want the same thing here.”

“I see,” Akechi says, thoughtful. He murmurs something Akira doesn’t catch before giving him a smile. “Well, thank you for noticing and taking it into account.”

Akira nods. “Sure.” He sets the glass down in front of Akechi, mesmerized as always at the way the cream barely mixes into the brew. It reminds him of Yusuke’s ink in water experiments. The liquid cream settles around the cubes of frozen cream and sinks to the bottom of the glass, leaving swirls of earthy brown and white in its wake.

And then Akechi ruins it by stirring it with a coffee straw.

_“Dude!”_ Akira squawks. Akechi jolts in his seat, startled by the sudden break in silence.

“What?”

Akira gestures to the coffee before crossing his arms over his chest, putting on his best disappointed face. “You ruined the magic! You’re supposed to enjoy the aesthetics of the cream in the coffee before you drink it.”

Akechi rolls his eyes and laughs. “Okay, sure, _Yusuke.”_

Akira gasps in mock offense, clutching his chest like he’s been shot. “Excuse you, I would be _honored_ to be so talented.”

Akechi gives him the flattest look Akira thinks he’s ever seen on a human being. _Good_ , Akira thinks. Better he be drawn into their banter than look like he did standing outside in the rain. He lets his gaze linger on the bags beneath Akechi’s eyes.

The door to Leblanc swings open with a jingle, drawing the two out of their staredown.

“Jesus, it’s really coming down out there,” Sojiro says, shaking off his umbrella. He looks up and notices the two boys staring at him, nodding at Akechi as he steps inside and flips the sign out front to _Open_. “Morning, kid. You’re here early.”

Akechi laughs sheepishly. “My apologies, I just find myself feeling so calm and at peace when I’m here. The atmosphere is lovely.”

Akira interrupts whatever Sojiro is going to say by slapping his hands on the counter. “Thank god you’re here. Listen, you have to tell Akechi that it’s a crime to just casually stir iced coffee without appreciating the way it looks first.”

Akechi drops his head into one hand with an exasperated sigh.

Sojiro rolls his eyes and dons his apron, tying the straps behind his back. “Don’t you have to get ready for work?” he asks, completely ignoring the question and the fact that it’s barely 6:15. “I don’t want customers coming in here thinking some homeless punk broke in.”

“Rude,” Akira scoffs. “I’m much too pretty for anyone to think I’m homeless.”

Akechi chokes on his coffee. Sojiro rolls his eyes again. “Go get ready or I’ll throw you out of here and you really will be homeless.”

Akira swings around the bannister, calling out over his shoulder as he goes upstairs, “You love me too much to get rid of me now, Boss!”

He texts Akechi while he’s getting dressed.

_**[Sent 6:26am]** _

**_Don’t leave. I’ll walk you to the station._ **

**_[Received 6:26am]_ **

**_I don’t think I’d be allowed to leave even if I wanted to._ **

**_[Received 6:27am]_ **

**_Boss is making breakfast._ **

Akira smiles at the implication that Akechi doesn’t actually want to leave. Satisfied he won’t be ditched, he finishes getting dressed and slips his glasses on. He casts a fond smile at the lump of black fur curled up on his pillow; it’s too early for Morgana to be up, and he’d stayed awake late into the night when Akira couldn’t fall asleep. He scratches his best friend behind the ears, smiling softly at the sleepy purr he gets in return.

A quick glance at his phone tells Akira it’s only 6:37, leaving about two hours before he actually has to be at the flower shop. He tosses the information around in his head as he heads back downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky fifth and seventh stairs so he doesn’t wake Morgana.

They all eat breakfast in relative silence, savoring the taste of cinnamon-tinged curry topped with grated honey crisp apples. Sojiro sends them off with a half-assed wave and two to-go cups of fresh coffee. It’s a new blend he hasn’t introduced Akira to yet, but he can smell hints of floral notes and taste the lingering sweetness on the back of his tongue.

Ten minutes into their walk to the station, the sun dares to peek through the clouds. Rain still falls steadily even as the clouds split and light spears through the sky. The morning brightens by degrees, though the rain doesn’t slow quite yet.

“You know,” Akira says, stretching his arm out from under his umbrella. Water gathers in his cupped palm, pooling together until it teeters dangerously close to tipping. He shakes his hand, letting it drip between his fingers. “This is my favorite type of weather.”

“Rain?” Akechi asks, watching a stray water drop travel down Akira’s wrist and into the sleeve of his jacket. Akira pretends not to notice.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Well, yes. But I meant sunshowers.” He can feel Akechi staring at him, and he turns his head to see an almost peaceful expression on the other’s face. “What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing, just…” Akechi trails off and waves his hand as if trying to find the right words. “It sounds like I’m repeating myself, but you never cease to amaze me.”

Akira’s small smile warms a bit more at that, lifting minutely at the corners. “Because I like the rain?”

“Because you find happiness in something I despise. I’ve always thought them unnatural and annoying. The roads get wet and reflect the sun right into your eyes. It always irritates me.”

The rain slows to a stop and Akira spins his umbrella, scattering leftover droplets into Akechi’s hair and face. “Maybe you just need a change of perspective.”

Akechi glares at him and closes his own umbrella, finger-combing his damp, frizzy hair back. “Maybe I need to wring your neck.”

Akira snorts and tracks the motion out of the corner of his eyes. “You’d miss me too much.” He pulls one of the many stretchy black harities from his wrist and passes it over. Akechi raises an eyebrow and Akira shrugs. “Ann is always breaking them,” he says by way of explanation.

Akechi nods and gathers his damp hair at the base of his head, deftly twisting it into a low ponytail. Akira stares. This is familiar, somehow, though he knows he’s never seen Akechi’s hair up before.

“Like what you see?” Akechi’s voice is low and quiet in the barely-there morning light. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his left ear, and Akira has a moment to think that Akechi’s hair tie should be red, not black.

He stops walking. Where had _that_ thought come from? Akechi slows to a stop as well, shooting him a quizzical look. Something tugs at his memory, a vision of glistening gold staircases and sparkling silver fountains and a figure dressed in black among a sea of faceless, multicolored clothes. He can just barely make out the blurred edges of a bitter smile and the sound of breaking glass.

“Are you all right?” Akechi’s face swims into view, mild concern written in the furrow of his brow. The vision evaporates in tendrils of smoke.

Akira shakes his head to clear away the fog. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I’m okay.” Akechi hums but doesn’t press the issue, something Akira is immensely grateful for.

“Well then, shall we be going?” He starts walking again, not waiting for a reply.

Akira catches up in two steps. “We have an hour and a half before either of us has to be at work. You know that, right?”

Akechi wags a finger at him. “You can never be too early if you plan on being productive.”

Akira rolls his eyes. “Just admit you want to get off early so we can hang out, it’s okay,” he teases, glancing sidelong at the tips of Akechi’s rapidly reddening ears.

“Considering I don’t know your schedule for today, that’s highly unlikely,” he says. His voice is smooth, no hint of his embarrassment to be found.

“Boo.” Akira pouts, looking sidelong at the pink dusting Akechi’s cheeks. “And here I thought I was just that irresistible.”

Akechi ignores him, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Akira thinks of an opulent ballroom and silent chains.

“Irresistible isn’t the word I would use,” Akechi says a few moments later, jostling Akira from his thoughts. “But I do treasure the time we spend together. Perhaps it’s because you’re different from anyone else I’ve met.”

Now it’s Akira’s turn to blush. Akechi is never short of praise for him, always complimenting his progress in billiards or his strategies in their games of chess. It warms something in his chest.

“I meant what I said about Leblanc, by the way,” Akechi continues as they swipe their passes through the station turnstiles. The lights are bright and glaring after the dim light outside. “I feel a bit more complete when I’m there. I do apologize for showing up so early this morning, though. I realize it was a bit out of the ordinary.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Akira says, waving off the apology. They stand side by side on the escalator, shoulders brushing. “It was a nice start to my day.”

Akechi hums and shifts incrementally closer. He stays that way even when they step off the escalator and toss their empty coffee cups in the trash. Akira tells himself it’s just because the station is crowded today. It gives him the chance to step slightly in front of Akechi when a group of girls looks at them a bit too long while they wait for the train. He meets their eyes coolly, willing them to go back to their conversation.

“I doubt anyone will recognize me dressed like this, you know,” Akechi says, placing a hand on Akira’s shoulder. He’s unbound his hair again, and it lays around his face in loose waves.

Akira looks over the shoulder Akechi holds and smirks. “I could always fluff your hair and give you my glasses again.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Akechi is glaring, but the barely-there tremble in his voice gives him away. Akira turns fully around and the hand on his shoulder falls away. He leans in a half-inch closer— _too close,_ the smarter part of his brain screams—and watches fire spark red in Akechi’s eyes.

“Is that a challenge, Akechi?”

Akechi’s phone blares a tune before he can respond, shattering the tension. Akira steps back to his casual, slouched position as Akechi pulls out his ringing phone, snorting at the contact name flashing on the screen.

_Chicken Shit?_ he mouths, smothering another laugh at Akechi’s scathing glare.

He answers the phone with a polite “hello?” completely at odds with the dirty look he’s still giving Akira. Akechi smooths his face into a placid expression as he listens to whoever is on the other end of the call, darting occasional glances at his surroundings. He won’t meet Akira’s eyes.

Arsene stirs beneath his skin. Akechi is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, but Akira sees the minute twitching of his fingers and the corded muscles in his throat tightening every time he forces a reply from his lips.

Akira is too far away and the station is far too noisy for him to actually hear what’s being said, but he tracks the moment Akechi’s face goes from blandly polite to closed off. His eyes fall shut, a metal door slamming down on a vault of secrets. His jaw tightens and the leather of his gloves creaks with how hard he clenches his fist.

Akira fights the urge to touch, to comfort. He doesn’t know for sure who’s on the other end of the phone, but the way Akechi tenses tells him it’s not a pleasant conversation. When Akechi hangs up, he takes a deep breath. A muscle in his jaw twitches. His eyes remain closed. An automated voice announces the incoming train.

When he opens them again, his face has shifted once more—a mask made of flesh and bone and dull brown eyes behind a hollow anger. Akira’s stomach twists. The train pulls into the station, rusty brakes squeaking as it slows down.

_Not right not right not right,_ Arsene chants in the hollow spaces between Akira’s bones. _It’s all a lie._

Akechi gives a close-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you for this morning. I always enjoy spending time with you. Unfortunately, I’m needed at work early today, so this is where we part. My apologies.” His fists are still clenched, the shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced than they were just a few minutes ago when he was laughing. He turns around, not waiting for a reply.

Akira makes a split-second decision as Akechi walks away, wrapping his fingers around a band of pale skin. Akechi’s pulse jumps beneath his fingers, skin warm beneath his touch despite the chilly autumn air that sinks into the station from outside. “Akechi, wait.”

Akechi turns back, staring at Akira’s hand around his wrist. “What is it?”

_I can help, let me help, let me—_

Akira swallows the lump in his throat and shoves down the part of him that screams _this is dangerous_. “Just… I’m here if you need anything, okay?” Akechi’s mask cracks minutely, long enough for Akira to see the surprise that colors his eyes. Behind them, the train doors open. People swarm around them, a sea of movement.

“I…” Akechi trails off. Akira smiles and gives his wrist a squeeze.

“Meet me at Leblanc at three.”

Akechi looks confused by the request. “Akira?”

Akira ignores the way his heart jumps into his throat at the use of his first name. It was an accident, he tells himself. Probably. “Just… please. I’ll be waiting.” He gives Akechi’s wrist one last squeeze before stepping back and onto the train, smiling to himself when he realizes his friend is no longer as tense.

Akechi stares at him as the train doors close, hands hanging limply at his sides.

Akira holds his gaze until he slips out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/KirishiMom), generally screaming about my latest interests and retweeting pictures of rocks I like. Next chapter should be up (hopefully) within a week or so.
> 
> [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/KirishiMom) || [Ko-Fi](https://ko-fi.com/kirishimom) || [full rec list](https://kirishimom.crd.co/#recs)

**Author's Note:**

> but when was akira ever alone in the metaverse? didn't he always have morgana?
> 
> maybe yes, maybe no. you'll find out c:
> 
> Feel free to come scream at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/KirishiMom). I'm most active there (unless I'm writing), or you can talk with me on [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/KirishiMom). Send any fic recs there too, if you have them. I'm always in the market for new content. I have my own [rec list](https://kirishimom.crd.co/#recs), but it's unfortunately barren of P5 for now. That will change very soon, though.


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